I hope you will join me in celebrating.

After years of work and lots of rejections, I am pleased to announce the publication of my first poetry chapbook: Not All Are Weeping. My small book of poems will be published by Main Street Rag sometime in the spring or summer of 2023. Here is a link to a short video of me reading a few poems and talking about the book: Listen here
32oto by Freddie Ramm on Pexels.com


a chance to spring

a quiet murmur that begs—

I languish­­­­­­–    

                        just listen.

                        My rocking chair the site

of delights—- a coffee, warm buttered bread,

sweater and soft slippers, swaddled

in a blanket of rain light.

Things needing to be done. Shush!  Here is

                        a rainy excuse for meandering



spent flowers,              sweet kisses— heady words.

Serious plans

            are for bright days.

After, I wander in secret places, mossy paths,

             see tiny violets hidden in grass. 


through fields

            I ponder tiny bluet and starflower.

                        After violent shear of a mower,

punched-flat violet stems spring right back up

                                                I can’t say that

I spring back up anymore

but simply allow          the stem 

to rise              slowly 


Published in The Hopper Magazine, May 2022


The Marriage House

                        A boy in a red cap rides his bike to the baseball field


                                                upside down

            for the girl who has answers to all the questions in chemistry class.

                                    They marry and ride home with a

            string of trout caught at Uncle Gus’s pond     hanging downside up like flags from                         the back of the bike                      to build a house together.

            He brings white pine trees, cozies up to a local watering hole,

                        rides a clever motorized bicycle

                                                            (which he pedals furiously when a car goes by).

                         She contributes a bright green          

                                                                                    and bitter lime marmalade,

                                                her grandmother’s silverware

                                                and the            sure path to salvation.

                        They both hammer and nail the thing together          

            He fusses about construction,             she slap

                                    dashes everything,      but the                         upside is                     

                                                they start building.

His beaten-up stuffed donkey,                       her London Fog raincoat,

                        his clam-shaped boat,                         her Steinway grand persona

his mother’s perfect chicken

                                                                        her father’s terrifying judgments.

                        For the downside of lumber they use

                                    his lies,

                                                her violence,

            his avoidance,                         her arrogance.  Reload

the secret fears

                                    they vomit up at night

                                                for nails.

                                                                                        The house grows.  No one                  notices

                        as termites       tear their way              up

            from the worried foundation,                         casually chew through

                         coffee cups thrown,               decisions smashed

                        boxed up feelings

                                                 in wine glasses and butter dishes

                                                            stashed away for future use.

            Holes turn into

                        caverns and     unsure              floors,

                                    lower levels eaten into                       

                                    l           a          c          e.

                                    One day walking         up        the steps

                        she plunges through rotten cotton batting and dead bugs,



                                    into an unexpected

                                    cavity filled

                                                with his steeled feelings and pretend promises.                                

He finds a place

                                                                        at the other end of the basement

            with her abandoned playthings–  desires, plans,

                        sincerities wrapped up in little boxes with bright paper. 

            They ask                                  what else is hidden here?

Published in Spank the Carp publication, December 2021

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